Provo, Utah

We arrived in Provo at around 10 pm, tired and hungry. Being tired of sleeping on the cold hard ground, we'd opted to drive halfway to Vegas, leaving the Tetons at around 5 o'clock. Provo is a decent-sized town and the approximate halfway point.

Provo, I learned, is where BYU is located. The iPhone informed us that 88% of Provo's population identifies as Mormon, and the rest is mainly Hispanic. All of this I found mildlyinteresting but not particularly titillating, especially since we only planned to spend a brief night in the hotel without interacting heavily with the local populace.

Stumbling into our Best Western double-queen bedroom, I found a pulp-fiction book penned by none other than L. Ron Hubbard, the founder of Scientology, sitting on the nightstand. As usual, I checked the drawer, only to find (to my disappointment) a regular Bible. Now things were getting good, as I imagined that there was an underground war being fought in Provo: the Mormon majority was being sniped by the guerilla Scientologists, one hotel room at a time.

Jesus and I headed out to find something to eat and soon settled on a local 24-hour taco place called el Monterrey or Las Pedro's or something like that. Staffed by Hispanics, the clientele was predominantly white people on what seemed to be second dates. As I ate my decent burrito (the chicken was dry and the thing just wasn't that flavorful, if you want to know), I watched the people in the restaurant to gain some insight on the Scientist/Mormon wars. A group of Mexicans came in, ordered to go. Also a group of Asians (!).

Three quarters of my burrito had vanished before I came to my most profound and horrifying conclusion of the night.

Every white male in the restaurant was dressed alike. It appeared that each one went into a Pac Sun and purchased the first T-shirt and shorts combo within reach. Every single one was wearing some combination of board shorts, Billabong shirts, flip flops, and/or those weird plaid button-up surfer shirts.

Here I was, sullenly eating my burrito in the company of these boisterous people who looked as if they'd been surfing all day without managing to get tans. They ate their burritos gleefully, helping themselves at the complementary salsa bar and eating while the melted cheese dripped down their chins. They talked to their girlfriends. They gulped their soda. Where was the war? Where was the tension, the book of Mormon, the starched white dress shirts, where was anything normal?

Thereis something too perfect about Provo, that paradise in the desert. It has been named by Forbes as one of the top 10 places in the country to raise a family. It ranked first for volunteerism in 2008, and the fourth-best place in the country for your health and well being. The Osmonds live there. Perhaps most alarmingly, it is projected to have the greatest population increase (47%) in the 2010 Census.

My unsettling experience in Provo left me with far more questions that answers. I leave you now with a simple image: that of Provo's flag. Yes, this is actually the official flag of the city. I'll allow it to speak for itself.